Long At wits end Poems
Long At wits end Poems. Below are the most popular long At wits end by PoetrySoup Members. You can search for long At wits end poems by poem length and keyword.
“Oh weary hermit, etch these words in stone ~
God is within, we never walk alone”
~ quote by poet
Dear God, give us our joy back;
our life’s reached a cul-de-sac,
with heart caught in desire’s net,
our bankrupt soul’s drowned in debt.
Pathways of sin, a dead end,
for how can darkness defend
soul’s innate bliss, ours to claim,
when our head hangs low in shame?
All seems lost and yet there’s hope,
choosing with love to elope,
breaking free from ego’s chain,
becoming a child again.
In mode embrace and release,
at wits end we’re yet at ease
for lo behold, love and light,
illumines the darkest night.
Seduced by love’s healing meth,
destiny too holds its breath,
carving for us a new path,
each day, a holy sabbath.
Heart’s devout faith opens doors
and as divine grace in-pours,
when we walk, the path appears,
blissful, joyous, free from fears.
07-February-2023
This or That, Vol 16 Poetry Contest
Sponsor: Edward Ibeh
We’ve fallen on hard times
The roof leaks
The stairs creak
The mice, no longer meek
We’re near complete despair
Windows all broken
The parrot won’t stop jokin’
The grandkids all smokin’
We’re at wits end
Our rent’s two months late
Bedroom’s painted slate
Poisoned by what we ate
The furnace just blew another fuse
Yet we stay amused…
At this point
What have we got to lose
So, we press on doggedly
We never complain
We stay in our lane
As our neighbors
Are quietly driven insane
The desire so strong to have a great night’s sleep
The shortcomings are how one feels when the morning greets?
An old lost companion who resides in the thickness of night
That presence becomes more elusive and my longing amassed
Whence does one have a moment to be at ease?
Deliverance is a subject that revolves around hours and minutes
Time out from the rigours of a quantumly perplexed life
No escape from the relentless vacuum that persists time after time
Whether here or there no refreshed states exist
No matter, for I alone endure all that matters and is amiss
Sleep and wakefulness lay side by side
One calls to the other and the two are entwined
Delusional mind, irrational thoughts
Processing moments that becometh the norm
Yet it plunders this soul and removes all prosperity
This looming curse has my alignment at wits end
What salvation or saviour can offer some saving grace?
All the wasteful moments accumulate and I am trapped in despair
Sleep is allusive on these cold long winter nights
Repetition to toss and turn and never learn what abides
Recognising the disorderly imbalance, unruly in one's head
To dissolve under camouflage and let no thoughts nigh….
I tried to write a song like John Denver would have done
Thought the way to do it was to emulate each one
Went to Colorado for a Rocky Mountain High
Found heaven near Shenandoah, but inspiration still not nigh.
Left my wife on a jet plane, didn't tell her what for
She would have disapproved, said get a job, what a bore.
In Wyoming, I camped under the moon
I tried to compose, but didn't like the tune
[chorus]
Channeling Denver, songwriter to emulate
I had the acoustic guitar, just couldn't be great
Searching for lyrics in that mountain space
Found peace, but no words in that quiet place
South wind blew in that East Texas town
Had a momentary idea, but couldn't write it down
At wits end, followed a country road home
disheartened, halfway, I sat on a stone.
I thought of John Denver's last flight, his plane fell to the sea
A tragic snapshot of that image before eternity
Remembered his song about his old guitar
In the music pantheon, I hope forever a star
[outro]
I gave up on the lyric, felt writer's block
Did I have anything worth saying? Tried to take stock
Then looked into my past, found what I had sought
A melody of my own, unpretentious and taut
But don't misunderstand, don't get me wrong
I'll can't wait to see the Wrangell mountains and play a John Denver song.
I've heard it all my life: Wahoo!
"Sticks and stones may break your bones
but words will never hurt you."
It’s all in the accents and tones.
"A toodlerump! Jonathan Blasterscripp!”
yelled a classmate on the playground.
I’d slid in home on my rear, what a trip!
(At least, I was safe all the way round.)
Then when I won the spelling bee, I heard
loud whispers returning to my chair.
"Jon's a pricklesmart, a witwhit, a nerd.”
(They couldn’t spell those names on a dare.)
The restroom was the worst place to be
with a bunch of junior-high boys.
"Liptonlips done drunk too much tea.”
Or “Turdtumbler’s in there making noise!”
(Sometimes, that one fit the occasion.)
Girls were just as gross - those snotty sisters
in little cliques trying to smear or shun.
“Cankerwarf’s got new fever blisters!”
*****
In governmental circles as of late,
name-calling has become quite the trend...
Dubs like Crazy- and Crooked- clearly state
that jealousy and arrogance are at wits' end.
November 25, 2020
Locating door D-75
Of a large colony on a drive,
At last close, ah D-74!
I must be right at destiny’s door.
But the next turns out B-68!!
What, lost at the very Pearly Gate?
So I felt midway through my poem—
Roots in air, hangs down to earth tree’s stem!
Old wisdom, the time turns when adverse,
I recalled oft-quoted holy verse
From Bhagavad-Gita’s holiest text
Talking of Tree of Life, but what next?
At wits’ end and left with not a clue,
You hope some divine help might rescue.
______________________________________
Tongue-in-cheek sonnet |09.02.2022|
Poet’s note: a sonnet of sort set in anapaest meter.
Fire raged through heavy wooded terrain,
Blizzard hit the panhandle hard,
Bad windstorm slammed the western plains,
Mudslides hid hundreds of backyards.
Brutal sandstorm swept through arid plains,
Fierce hurricane aimed at the Keys,
Havoc descended on tornado lane,
Earth’s warming threatened baby seals.
Crops were at risk in fertile farm fields,
Crowds assembled for protest walks,
Northwest reached one hundred ten degrees,
Earthquakes possible near the fault.
Hospitals were overfull with the sick,
Medical teams were at wits end,
Some thought the nation’s flame left the wick,
Would never find its fire again.
People had the lowdown newscast blues,
Some feared apocalyptic end,
The anchors said it was breaking news,
And we looked for someone to blame.
Traces of the masterful
impregnable prepubescent wall
still extant scads of decades since
complex edifice erected to force tall
permanently leaving me unmoored,
marooned, and furloughed ready for pall
bearers to spill soil upon my
then emaciated stick figure overall,
an unlovely bag of bones
stripped of flesh,
sans unseen deadly parasites,
who valiantly tried to mothball,
and nearly succeeded, kneaded,
and deeded landfall,
when aghast parents
at wits end betiding,
halting, and ramming ace kickball
player with serious
game of life and death,
the latter cleated toehold
unanimous decision to install
topnotch scorer anticipating
seeing his name plaque mounted
within glass encasement within guildhall,
faintly hearing inaudible teammates
praised showered, visited
head upon one, with grit and gall,
who clinched championship
wrathful excoriation against me
referee could not forestall,
who fumbled, kindled (as predicted)
loose tongues flaying hide with no rescue
to escape being skewered behind eight ball,
thus the above "FAKE"
metaphor merely to accentuate
self repudiation delivering
to this defacto scapegoat
bullies taunts endlessly berate
ting, jackknifing, and resulting
with implacable self hate
deferrening allowance,
asper my grant (migrant)
humph...pariah status
to learn social skills quite late,
and apathetically to marry and mate
despite ambivalence within my pate
even now...the entombed fortress prison wall,
I cannot obliterate
hence... no surprise WALLS - I HATE!